Adversity: It’s not just a city in Adver

Good Lord, people. With horrible jokes like that, how and why are you even still following this blog?

No! Wait! Don’t go! Not when things are just about to heat up. Time to get serious. Seriously funny.Well, I might cry or something, and there’s probably going to be some really awkward sniffles and entirely too much snot, but after that. All laughs. Peachy shenanigans. Next stop – Joke Central. Toot, toot!

My guess would be that the city of Adver looks a little something like this. Except more tumbleweeds. Maybe a black hole or something. Definitely creepy clowns just...roaming...

Beep, beep? Ah, hell – whatever sound trains destined for Titter Town make. But first, one short trip to Adver(sity).

I’ll start off by quickly saying that there is absolutely nada funny about adversity. Not to be confused with “diversity,” of which Anchorman’s Ron Burgundy coined as an “old, old wooden ship,” and which is funny.

Still with me? If so, I hope you’re listening because this pertains to all of you… (Last Anchorman quote) (No promises)

My mother, whom is one of the strongest people I know (Except in physicality; she really struggles with those pickle jars), recently said that adversity makes us stronger and that the trials and tribulations onset from the time we are born mold us into genuine people of value, courage and compassion. It’s a chance for optimism, of growth and opportunities, all rolled into one like some sort of bitter-tasting sushi roll.

Mmm, sushi.

Hardships shape who we are. I believe this not only because my mom is 99 percent right on all things except how to pronounce cinnamon, but because regardless of its complications, it has shaped me in preparation for helping others face similar difficulties in the future.

It also recently helped shape me literally. Two pounds – gone! And I had at least six desserts on Easter, plus dessert leftovers.

Perhaps I should send the city of Adver a formal thank you card.

Regardless, humor does not exist in the way misfortune blindsides us at a moment’s notice, nor in the suffering or pain, humiliation or overwhelming sadness that follows in its wake. Not even in the way it threatens to crush your very existence and soul to a mindless, numb pile of bones and muscle that can’t even manage to complete the simplest of tasks, like oooh, let’s say filling your tank with gas. Nothing like having a co-worker watch you get back in your car after parking on the wrong side of the station, only to get out seconds later to try again.

Who, me? Why, I just got out over here because it looked like a good place for stretchin'. Then I'm gonna fill up right over there. Yup. Keepin' things real.

Whoopsie.

I don’t even have blonde highlights. Talk about a bad day.

In those moments, ya either lose it and live out the remainder of your life in an abandoned bus on the edge of a river or determinedly push ahead, moving forward until you walk into the light again, only to wish you had remembered to bring along sunscreen. Baby steps.

Conscious efforts and well-contemplated decisions are gateways to success navigating through large waves in your life, but the extremity of success or failure is oftentimes enough to make even the sanest person a little nuts. So, even though there is nothing remotely funny to be found when being repeatedly bitch-slapped by adversity, I solely believe it is our job to come out swinging just as hard (Why do you think I kick box?), and preferably with a few good jokes in hand.

Yes, it’s been a rather rough week for this chica, and I know that we all have them except that sometimes they are so bad that it physically and mentally hurts, leaving you short of breath regardless of your strength-training regimen. And this time it is not my intention to elicit pity or parties, because I’ve remarkably already made out with BBQ ribs, a zebra-print umbrella, lots of backrubs, and alarmingly sweet comments at work since Monday. And the bear hugs!

Numerous.

All this in mind, I’m hoping I can’t be blamed for making awful jokes in an attempt to lighten things up. It’s like when people are found innocent in court for something heinous because they plead temporary insanity. Except bad jokes are probably worse. And in that case, I am guilty, guilty, GUILTY.

But humor me.

Clay and I were watching Chopped the other night and one of the special ingredients was ground lamb. After all contestants began making meatballs, I turned to Clay and said rather brightly, “Why doesn’t someone try to make a lamburger?”

Enter me pausing, thinking about that for entirely too long and then bursting out with a hysterical, maniacal laugh. Which – I probably was a little.

"I wanna see!"

But of course, that’s also hilarious. (Humor me)

Later that evening, we were looking for Chloe. Noticing she wasn’t in her normal nap spots, we both knelt down to look under the bed. With the light-footed jingle of her collar, I turn just in time to see Chloe bound into the room, looking at us inquisitively, no doubt questioning our intelligence.

Cue Clayton offering this gem, speaking on behalf of Chloe:

“Hey, whatcha guys lookin’ at?!”

If those didn’t do it for you, I’ll leave you with this:

Why we’re loving Opening Day

“You always get a special kick on opening day, no matter how many you go through. You look forward to it like a birthday party when you’re a kid. You think something wonderful is going to happen.” – JOE DIMAGGIO

Espress-oooh, shit! Oncoming traffic!

It’s all over the news this week – a newly invented portable espresso machine that plugs into your car’s cigarette lighter (Ah, the irony of replacing one bad habit with another). Although it’s not yet being sold in the U.S., it’s (surprise, surprise) making strides in Europe and a travel-sized model is available online for all those outdoor activities in which premium espresso is essential. Camping. Skiing. Whitewater rafting.

"Who's got the espresso machine? Pete? Pete! Espresso me!" (Image: adventuredrop.com)

Finally, a mug full of scalding liquid available instantaneously right when you need it - in the middle of a rigorous mountain biking session! Don’t worry, don’t worry – it comes with two small napkins. As if anyone would be clumsy enough to spill while skydiving. Rookies, all of ya!

To those outdoor enthusiasts who can’t go without the sauce for a weekend or even a few hours: I think you’re missing the point.

It’s called the rugged outdoors. Espresso doesn’t exactly scream “I’m one with wilderness!” The most premium thing about any of the above activities is the social acceptability of peeing wherever and on whatever you choose.

If you read the article, you’ll see it’s really quite simple to set up the machine in your car. Just a few steps and you’ll be driving recklessly on the road during all of them! I mean, in no time!

1. Locate thermos.
2. Wash thermos from last time you used it. (JK. Like you’ll be alive to use it more than once)
3. Pour water into thermos.
4. Get into car.
5. Place pod over thermos.
6. Screw on top of thermos.
7. Hit “on” button.
8. Wait two minutes.
9. Take thermos out of machine.
10. Pour espresso into tiny cup without lid.
11. Replace thermos.
12. All while driving!!

Yeah, I can see how this would be so much quicker than making it yourself at home. God forbid you multitask while you’re getting ready for work, or drive through a Starbucks on your way. It’s not like they’re hard to find or there’s only one in town.

"But dad - I'm not tall enough to see the road!" "Just steer a few moments longer, Timmy. Daddy needs his caffeine fix." (Image: delish.com)

Well. Unless you live in my town. But even then, there’s not a line because – Nebraska!

My favorite part about this whole article is the image delish.com decided to include. It’s not someone in the passenger seat safely pouring espresso for the person, oh say, driving the car. That would just be stupid! Rather, the image shows a man using both hands to pour it himself. Eyes on the prize, am I right? But there’s a catch! He appears to be driving, too!

Impressive.

It could be he’s incredibly gifted at driving with his knees, or he has his five-year-old holding the wheel while he grabs a cup of joe. Maybe he’s at a stop light or better yet, parked somewhere. (My bet is on top of another car he just collided with)

So I’ll buy it. He’s parked. And this is saving time how again?

At least if you’re still alive after pouring the espresso, you can keep one hand on the wheel as the next adventure of trying not to spill the tiny mug begins. Because why on earth would a portable espresso machine come with a cup holder? Cars normally drive so smoothly.

Are you supposed to shot the steaming liquid?

With the inclusion of two spillage napkins, I can only conclude that Handpresso must consider spilling not only inevitable, but somehow acceptable. Man, this espresso is good, and the upside is that it’s going to smell like espresso in my car forever because espresso has spilled into the backseat, onto the floor mats, and it’s even on my suit just in time for the big presentation. Yay, espresso!

A person would reaaaaally have to enjoy espresso. Like, more than your life, which is valued at $199.99, by the way. The portable espresso machine, however?

Priceless.

Sure, there will be some skeptics. “How is this in any way a good idea?” they’ll ask.

“Keeps ‘em awake! Less accidents!” Handpresso advocates will gush, clearly too loaded on caffeine to bother with complete sentences.

According to the article, you’ll never fall asleep while driving again. I believe it! Cuz you’ll be too busy. Being dead.

"Aw, are the waser wights getting in your wyes?" "Yes! Trying to drive here!" "...pussy." (Image: lazercraze.com)

I’ve taken the liberty to get the ball rolling on some other car-friendly, portable essentials I think could really change the course of present day driving (literally):

1. Laser tag
2. Shower
3. A fully stocked bar
4. Shooting range
5. Hot plate

When life gives you lemons, ask for a gift receipt without even feeling bad. That’ll show it.

I am all alone in this world. Insert the pity party you guys are about to throw me _________.

The whole crew's gonna be there - complaining, negativity, even melancholy! Don't let melancholy near the margaritas, though. (Photo from redvinesandredwine.blogspot.com)

Less piñatas, gosh! This is a pity party, for heaven’s sake. And hands off the guacamole and chips while you’re at it. (Why is my pity party Mexican-themed?) If you want to eat, feed on my incessant whining and sorrow.

All alone was probably an irrational thing to say. I’ve got friends, ya know. Can’t forget the cat (like she’d let me). Probably shouldn’t leave my wonderful family out, either. And I suppose I AM surrounded by coworkers eight hours of the day, not to mention I have all of you.

To sum up, the more tiny violins you could play for me, the better, because I see the margaritas are running out, too. Sheesh, who organized this fiesta – it’s like you just started to hastily put it together a minute ago.

In hindsight, I’m not so entirely alone as much as I’m simply without Clayton for a few  more days. Nine to be exact. NINE. That’s more than a week! I counted. He’s in Israel, working, writing me postcards and floating in the Dead Sea while simultaneously taking photos of himself in said sea, thumbs up and all smiles. At least, those are the instructions I gave him before he left. Hope his phone’s salt-proof. Hope he thinks to bring tequila and limes!

Just call me Rico Suave. Now where did I put my visor? (Photo from iocanel.blogspot.com)

I envision the aforementioned postcards to have funny-looking camels in ridiculously tiny hats on the front. Postcards that say something witty, such as: “Like sands through an hourglass, so are the — OMG, camel in a fedora!” and will make me miss him even more because they remind me of how funny and adorable he is, and how much he gets my offbeat sense of humor. And the camels are smiling widely to reveal a set of bulky teeth, but in a really cheesy manner like they just slyly swindled another tourist out of more cash for a camel ride because Americans don’t know the kilometer to mile conversion. And they’re wearing sombreros.

I really can’t escape this theme.

On the upside of this whole situation, I get the bed to myself to sprawl out as far as my short legs will take me, which I suppose isn’t really a game changer after all. I can watch all the rom-coms I want, only having to defend myself from a disdainful-looking Chloe. As if that’s not difficult enough — those eyes are sharp enough to cut through any of Katherine Heigl’s drama.

And painting! I’ll do it!

Someone should really tell him that all that red makes him look unapproachable... (Photo from boomtron.com)

On the downside, I don’t have anyone to make fun of Finding Bigfoot with. (“This could be the episode where they find him!”) Or to snuggle against when I wake up in the middle of the night after bad dreams about X-Men’s Deadpool character. Shiver. That being said, I guess I also don’t have anyone to diligently remind me of the Deadpool nightmare the next evening just as I’m trying to fall asleep. Thanks for that, darling.

Lastly, who’s going to email me daily at work to liven up my workweek with funny pictures stories of past broomball tournament(s) haircuts and instructions on how to build a cat tank?

Anyone willing to email me daily until April 5 going once…

Anyone willing to email me daily until April 5 going twice…

Don’t be shy. ANY ONE will do.

Going thrice…

He…hello?

I am all alone in this world.

It’s pie time I show my appreciation for you

Puns! They’re just one of the ways we have fun here. So, to celebrate the subscription of 1,000 followers to my blog this week (Hi, guys!), I thought I’d pass some complimentary pie your way as my way of showing my appreciation and happiness at having you here!

It’s in chart form, naturally. Enjoy, feel free to come back for seconds, and thanks for visiting my site – gosh, you make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Hugs-n-love!

1,000 reasons (or just 10) I love my followers

Here’s to a hot and heavy Sweet Sixteen

Emotions and personality traits I haven’t experienced since hitting puberty and beginning to date resurfaced awkwardly this month as March Madness hit full stride. Bittersweet nostalgia once again made an appearance, as did sweaty palms and pointless insecurities about my bracket. Cheeks flush with excitement, I picked my winning teams for the NCAA Men’s Division I Basketball Championship, hiding behind false confidences and smug smiles and thinking I knew better than any sportscasters’ predictions. After all, what did they know? Certainly not how to match a tie to a button-up shirt and suit jacket.

Really, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy should have never been canceled.

What made you think this suit was a good idea, Craig Sager? What?

My college picks were flawless for awhile, albeit superficially. I went into the first day of the tournament with only two losses. Those sportscasters’ balls may have dropped years ago, but they still didn’t have the balls to pick Colorado for a win, I remember thinking snobbishly last week. As my number of wins increased, so did my intense need to win the Pizza Hut gift card my department would present to its bracket winner. I could already taste the free cheesy breadsticks. The only thing hindering this fantasy was the momentary thought that my metabolism isn’t what it used to be. But, thankfully, neither is my body image.

Those who loyally follow the tournament or have filled out a bracket fully understand the instantaneous angst that presides over their lives for the following four weeks. With a little help from fate, luck, prayer and good-ole statistics, hand-in-hand with silly jinxes, bubble-lettered posters and face paint, the world only slowly starts its spin again on the off-days when teams hit the road, driving ever closer to an adamant and surely tumultuous victory.

I was delightfully ignorant going into this year’s March Madness festivities. Little did I know my courtship with these teams would be as fleeting as a schoolgirl’s first crush. In many cases, the single-elimination tournament has already broken my heart coldly and impersonally, and I have no doubt it will continue to do so next year, and the year after that. We never quite learn, do we?

It's not you, Jays, it's me. Maybe...maybe this tournament will all work out again someday for us...when we're older.

Creighton was my team of choice, although I knew odds weren’t good that they’d make it too far into the tournament and that my adoration would soon turn to another. One of the underdogs from the Missouri Valley Conference here in Nebraska, they were invited to the Big Dance for the first time since 2007. It was official. (SQUEAL!!) One of the most watched and prominent sporting events of the year, it’s an honor to be asked to the tournament and in this case, it was not so unlike the quarterback of the football team asking the girl with braces and unruly hair to prom. More smack talk. Less hair product.

Sadly, with so many eligible and skillful teams, Creighton soon found themselves out of the running. With accusations of breaking UNC point guard Kendall Marshall’s wrist, it certainly didn’t help that Creighton Forward Ethan Wragge was light-years away from winning any popularity contests.

Like many of you who are active participants in brackets, tournament watchers or simply basketball lovers, I’ve already run the gamut of adolescent feelings over the games. Cliquey of my favorite teams. Irritable upon watching Missouri, whom I had picked to be a top two contender (don’t judge!), lose to a team that was predicted to trail by 15 points. Clingy and stubbornly tied to Creighton, even though I knew they were bad news for me, and more so – my bracket. I’m sure my friends and family all disapproved of that pick.

If there’s one behavioral trait I AM proud of regarding my reaction to all the madness, it is that I have never, ever overreacted to a win or loss, and why? Because I am a mature adult. Those tears you may have seen in my eyes as Creighton lost? Allergies. The pollen count is outta sight this spring. That obnoxious screaming coming from my downstairs apartment? My first spider spotting.

The tears, fist pumps, passion, teamwork and dedication of every single player I’ve watched thus far in the tournament, however, have been very real. Truly fascinating and awe-inspiring to watch. Heartbreak in seeing seniors proudly leading the last play of the game – and their college careers. Delight in witnessing an underdog win a game in which no one considered them a contender. Courage in daring to take the ball down a lane covered in guys 20 pounds heavier. Creighton Center Gregory Echenique going for that rim-

Balls, my friends. Mad balls.

crushing final dunk to show a number one seed he’s not threatened? Or, just Echenique wearing pink shoes day after day for that matter? Ballsy.

Only second to the raw emotions that have surfaced so far during this wonderful month are the heart attacks that we as viewers have. Fueling the fire of insanity are those heart-stopping passes through a sea of opponents, that heart-pounding free throw to tie the game, and the heart-dropping ninth of a second that crushes everyone’s hopes as a last-ditch lob at the basket falls short at the impatient drone of the buzzer. In those moments, thousands of fans unknowingly hold their breath and await glory or monumental loss because come April, there can only be one victor.

Then, it’s time to exit the stadiums, shut off the televisions and rejoin the real world, making money like an adult – gambling your kids’ college funds away at the casino.

On a side note, anyone want to go in with me on some cheesy breadsticks?

No one wants to be bad company. Not even the band.

I can’t remember the last time I spent a weekend at home, probably because a nice restaurant here is considered Applebee’s or Pizza Ranch (Ooh, choices!) Add that to the fact we don’t have a Target, multiple that significant setback by at least five when I tell you the miniature golf course upped their prices for popsicles last year and I know you’re feeling my pain on an exponential level.

Those popsicles are $1.25 apiece now. Are you kidding me? If I’m going to pay more than a buck for flavored ice that’s paradoxically frostbitten AND melted, I’m going to do it in Omaha, even if it takes a price tag of $50 in gas to get there. Omaha popsicles – now with 100 percent more sweet victory and tart smugness. Suck on that, hometown economy.

Sends shivers down your spine just looking at it, doesn't it?

These are just a few major reasons I head out of town quite frequently. Most times, the weekend sneaks up on me like a ninja. I’ll be typing away in my windowless cubicle day after monotonous day just to realize it’s five p.m. and Friday and RUUUUNNN!

Only safely on the road and a good distance from town do I turn my worriment toward finding a place to stay. Luckily, I have incredible friends in surrounding cities who always take me in at a moment’s notice. They get it. Could it be they understand because they’ve unknowingly been lured here under false pretenses of “clubbing it up” some weekend when I couldn’t escape, desperately needing their support to make it through?

Heh, heh, heh.

The Amigos portion of the itinerary is my favorite part of the evening, but who doesn’t love a 2 a.m. burrito to get the taste of cheap drinks and the feel of old, strange men’s lingering stares off their mind? Not to mention it’s my way of apologizing for my shameless trickery. Amigos for my amigos! Yes, I let them splurge on tater tots with a side of ranch. I’m a good person.

Really.

One night here and they’re calling me on the phone later that week, cajoling me with weekend plans of live sporting events, wine and shopping in a town with (gasp!) an interstate system. Malls. More importantly – shoes that aren’t from a Payless Shoe Source.

Your source for officially knowing when you've given up on life.

Like I wouldn’t just show up on my own.

After multiple nights spent on a futon or inflatable mattress, living on travel-sized beauty products and wondering if it’s ok to run to the bathroom in the middle of the night in my undies, I suppose I consider myself somewhat of a houseguest expert. Therefore, I’ve taken the liberty to compile the five most important tips to keep in mind if you find yourself in the same predicament.

So much for a brief intro.

1. No “Don’t mind if I do” attitudes allowed.
That fancy face wash and spare change screaming “Take me!” on the bookshelf? They’re not yours. Neither is the toilet paper. Just kidding, unless house rules indicate otherwise and then you had better hope there’s a Target or nice oak tree outside to solve your most immediate dilemma. If you don’t heed this warning, you may end up borrowing the toothbrush that cleans those problematic grooves in the bathroom tile. Or the dog’s teeth. Not so minty fresh anymore, are we?

2. Manners. Get ‘em.

"Oh! Oh, God - it's like a tinier version of Andrew Zimmern from 'Bizarre Foods.'" "Just...leave it outside for now...we'll figure out what to do with it later."

You know all those pleasing interpersonal skills you use in job interviews to sell yourself? Quiet, pleasant, respectful, considerate and helpful are a few. Dust those off and while you’re at it, put the dishes you just used in the dishwasher, too.

If you aren’t constantly questioning if you’re doing your part as a houseguest, guess what? You’re a horrible houseguest. Don’t worry (too much) though. The guilt may be free, but it’s still part of the price you pay to stay at another’s home.

Some common questions that may run through your head that require a responsible, physical response discounting running away are:

1. Do you think they’ll agree that the coffee I spilled adds a certain amount of retro flair to their armrest?
2. Are cabinets typically so flammable?
3. If I fix this showerhead I just broke with gum, will it outlive my stay?
4. Did I remember to let the baby back in? Wait. Do babies have to be let out to pee? Wait. Did they even have a baby?

3. Clean up after yourself.
When you leave, at least make sure your bed looks like a five-year-old attempted to make it. Plus five points for leaving some of the corners un-tucked so the homeowners can feel like they’re needed. It makes their house feel alive again, they’ll say. They can almost here the pitter-patter of little feet again, they’ll comment, turning to one another and smiling gently. Of course, that’s all before they discover the beer bottles piling up in the yard and that you just accidentally dropped their wedding album into the baby pool in which you were skinny dipping.

4. Show a little gratitude, man!
Still feeling guilty? Good, but it’s still not enough and you’ll have to actually pay/be accountable for something a bit more tangible. Something that comes with a receipt and can be documented. Might as well make it something you would enjoy or benefit from as well so everyone feels at home. I recommend a bottle or two of wine, sending an e-thank-you with a link to your sweet blog (No, you’re welcome), or thick steaks they can cook up conveniently when you visit in a fortnight, which is really unexpectedly tomorrow upon accidentally locking yourself out of your apartment.

Still thinking about it, aren't you?

5. Don’t act like you own the place.
If it were your place, would you leave the lint freshly cleaned out from between your toes on the countertop? Oh, you would? Well, don’t do that!

While you’re not at it, don’t help yourself to that last piece of pie, sit in the head of the house’s recliner or use up all the hot water or trust me – you’ll be the one in hot water! Well, you already are if you’re using the hot water in the shower. Lucky. I just meant…figuratively.

Still don’t get it? Take a listen to Nothing Painted Blue’s song, fittingly entitled, “Houseguest.”